


After the Ball

by Book7BrokeMyBrain



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Drunk!Sherlock, Episode: s03e02 The Sign of Three, Gen, Lap-sitting, Pining, The Language of Fowers, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-12
Updated: 2014-01-12
Packaged: 2018-01-08 12:22:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 830
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1132609
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Book7BrokeMyBrain/pseuds/Book7BrokeMyBrain
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Where does Sherlock go after he leaves the wedding early?</p>
            </blockquote>





	After the Ball

Mycroft opened the door to his brother on the threshold. He tightened the belt of his dressing gown, and swung his arm wide in welcome. Sherlock did not look up, but headed into the library.  
“Do help yourself,” Mycroft said softly, as his brother finished pouring a large brandy. “At least take your coat off. Stay a while,” he offered with a sincere smile. He thought he'd be seeing more of his brother, was glad of it, but he didn't expect to see him so soon after the wedding. While the reception was no doubt still winding down, in fact.  
Sherlock stripped off his Belstaff revealing his morning coat and trousers. He slipped out of the jacket and laid them both over a chair. He picked up his snifter and drained it by half in one go. He returned to the sideboard, refilled his glass and poured another.  
“I really shouldn't --” Mycroft was cut off by the snifter being pushed into his hand. “Well. One couldn't hurt.”  
They sat and drank. Sherlock pried off his shoes, flexing his toes in the carpet. Mycroft crossed his legs and played with a fold in the silk of his pajamas. Sherlock poured another, and carried the decanter over to top up Mycroft as well. Sherlock slumped deeply into the club chair.  
Mycroft cleared his throat. “The weather was lovely today. Sunny. That's good, isn't it.”  
Apparently, Sherlock had regressed to the selective mutism of his youth. Mycroft was not going to try to draw him out of it. After today, there was little to be said, after all. Let him drink.  
Mycroft couldn't recall ever seeing his brother so inebriated. High, hyper, yes. He waited patiently until his brother spoke; he knew he would eventually.  
“I tried to tell him. John.” Sherlock's head rolled restively.  
“What did you try to tell him?”  
Sherlock breathed out. “I tried to tell him. He couldn't understand. He didn't... know.”  
Mycroft cocked a brow.  
Annoyed, “I was in charge of _everything. Details._ ”  
“Yes....”  
“She didn't know either. Mary. She couldn't speak it so it was safe to tell him. But he couldn't speak it so it was _useless_. Stupid.” He swallowed another mouthful of brandy.  
Mycroft waited.  
Sherlock huffed and frowned. “I told him I loved him. In my speech. It was p-- platitudes. Plain words. What's eggs – eggspected. No one minds. If I say that. Of course I love him, everybody loves him, loves John.” His face worked through some emotion. “S'not special. Not the truth. There was more.” Sherlock fluttered a hand around. “I was in _charge._ ”  
“You were in charge of the planning.”  
Sherlock nodded heavily. “I sent a message. I picked them out.”  
“Ahh!” Mycroft sat back. “The boutonnieres. But he wouldn't know, would he. The language of flowers.”  
Sherlock's face crumpled. He rubbed his nose. “No.” He gestured over his heart, where his left lapel would be.  
“Maybe it's best that he didn't.”  
“I made them put lichen on mine. D'you remember what that means?”  
“No. Tell me.”  
“They put some lichen in under the rose so you couldn't see it. But it means 'solitude'. So I wouldn't forget.” Sherlock curled up in his chair.  
“You won't be alone.”  
“Otherwise, our flowers were the same. Same... _sentiment._ I made him say it back to me. In his one.”  
“Oh, Sherlock.”  
“All day. I kept seeing it. On him. And I knew....” His little brother sucked in a shuddering breath, and struggled not to sob it out again. He slid from his chair onto his knees. He sat at Mycroft's feet, set his snifter on the floor. “I'm his best friend. But I don't get to keep him.”  
Mycroft reached out his hand and caressed the disheveled curls. Sherlock leaned into it.  
“Sherlock....” With just a slight plea to the word, a note of invitation in Mycroft's voice, Sherlock knelt up and clambered onto the sofa with his brother, thirty years dropping away. He half sat in his lap, draped across him. Mycroft curved an arm around his narrow back, heaving him up closer, petting his hair, soothing his hurts like he had always done, though not in such a physical sense since they'd been children.  
Sherlock wrapped a fist in the front of Mycroft's pajama top, pulled himself in tight. Mycroft murmured nonsense to him, nursery words, loving words.  
Sherlock breathed unsteadily for a time, until he evened out, asleep finally. It had been a long day, a long month.  
Mycroft hummed a melancholy old tune as he embraced his brother, pressed a kiss to his head, and rolled gingerly from beneath. He laid Sherlock out on the couch, then turned to find the afghan, singing to himself.  
“ _Many a heart is aching, if you could read them all-- Many a hope that has vanished, after the ball._ ”  
He spread the throw over him. He paused to smooth an errant curl off Sherlock's forehead, turned off the light and made for bed. 

**Author's Note:**

> If I ever get a list of the seven or so flowers and greens that made up the gorgeous boutonnieres that the groom's party wore, I will do another fic about the no-doubt laden message that must be there.  
> Someone once mentioned Sherlock sitting in Mycroft's lap and I wanted to make that happen. It took canon to give me a sadness strong enough to push Sherlock into his brother's arms. This does not fix any of the feels from 'The Sign of Three', in fact it might be throwing fuel on the fire. Eeep.


End file.
